Life Support
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: Rated R for language (i'm Canadian, I'm used to a little language). After finding out he's responisble for someone else's death, Trip has to confront some demons of his own. Could possibly be considered Alternate History, take it as you will. Complete.
1. Losing It

Timeline:  This story takes place in the second season directly after "The Cogenitor".  In fact it begins immediately after Trip leaves Captain Archer's office upon learning of the Cogenitor's suicide.

DISCLAIMER:  The characters involved are not mine.

Notes:  This is my first piece of fan-fiction, so please read and review.  Note that the footnotes (after many of the song quotes) are simply to allow attribution while breaking up the flow of the story as little as possible.  Also, my depictions of characters mental states are based on behaviours demonstrated within the confines of the television show.  And if my history isn't exact… remember that Star Trek has never shied away from alternate universes.  If the background I give doesn't match up with something you've found somewhere (which I probably haven't seen), feel free to mention it, but don't hold it against me, rather look at it in that alternate universe light.  After all, much of that history is events that most people would not relate, and ones witnessed only by the dead.  And it _could_ have happened this way…

Life Support 

Dead.  Suicide.  The words careened their way around Trip's consciousness like particles in an acceleration chamber just waiting for the chance to collide and set of a catastrophic chain reaction.  Behind them chased the ones he'd just spoken in the captain's office.  _It's my fault_.  Another voice joined them, this one from farther back in time.  _"I don't know why…_" his father's bitter tones echoed, _"I don't know why he can't use the brains God gave him, and he certainly got enough…"_ If only Charles Jr. could see him now.  Yessiree, talk about the brain-dead move of the millennium.  Chalk another one up to the champion cogitator of Panama City…

Fragments of a forgotten poem (or was it a song?) surfaced and dove down again before he could grab hold of them.  In front of him the doors of the turbo-lift slid back, offering an escape. Not enough of one, he'd prefer something that'd allow him to disappear entirely, but – like a good engineer – he'd have to make do.

            ***      ****            ***            ****            ***            ****            ***            ****

_Thank God that's over_.  He leaned back against the wall of his quarters while the door slid shut; moving farther was out of the question in his current state.  Word spread quickly in a small community – gossip was a universal force that went warp ten everywhere – and through the entire shift he could feel them watching him.  Staring.  Wondering.  Too polite to say anything, still respecting the rank, but… _Do they still respect the man?_ His inner voice, the mocking one, let loose with another nasty punch. He couldn't blame them if they didn't, _he_ sure didn't have any appreciation for the man and he _was_ the man.  He caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the helmet of the antique diving gear that formed the main decoration of the room.  "Asshole."  The word came out, dark, fierce, fervently meant.  As he turned away, a glint of light caught his eye from on top of the desk, and the buried words _{…and any promise we make/is as easy to break/as the plastic people on the wedding cake/so says you…[1]}_ surfaced again, this time sticking around long enough to register.  From where…  He moved towards the desk, and picked up the picture that had fallen out of place so that the overhead light reflected oddly off its frame.  He was about to put it back when he realised _what_ picture it was.  Two faces stared out at him, grins plastered across both of them.  One was a boy about ten, dark hair flopping down on to his forehead but not quite covering up a long, healing gash, his eyes – one of them blackened -- glinting with intelligence and rampant mischief.  Crazy kid, if he only knew what he'd grow up into… The other one held his attention longer, as though by staring at it he could cause the image to be real.  Dark red hair held back in a fraying ponytail, and those unforgettable mis-matched eyes: one of them violet and the other an intense green. _{…if you think about me/from far away/I hope you find that with me or without me…[2]}_ Ah, Toby, why of all times now?  It would explain the music but…God.  He replaced the picture and turned away, pain washing over him, threatening to stop his breath.  He remembered reading somewhere how back in the early twenty-first century some scientists showed how emotional pain and physical pain were processed in the same manner by the human brain.

"That's for sure," he murmured, unable to stop the first few tears from spilling out of his eyes.  Working more on instinct than conscious thought, he made his way to the footlocker below his bed.  Inside he located what he'd been waiting for all day, _is this the sign of a problem, Tucker?_, the long squared off bottle; a glass nestled in beside it.  Just a little something to calm his frenzied nerves to quiet the voices of ghosts.  He inhaled before tasting, that first sniff often did more than the drink itself; it was the _anticipation_ of drink, of sweet blessed oblivion.  Besides, he needed a good nervous system depressant – _depressant, Tucker?  Are you sure you need another _depressant_?_ – after everything he'd just been through.

"Shut up," he muttered, needing to say the words out loud, needing to be louder than the mockingbird.  Damn, that voice could be disturbingly academic at times, hell it could probably out intellectual T'Pol.  He drained the glass and refilled it, more to spite himself than anything. "Devil, pour me another shot."  Funny how songs were obsessing him today, he was sure that line belonged to another one.[3]  Toby thought about songs a lot, was almost always singing one softly in that sweet soprano voice of hers.  Twenty-twenty-first century rock music, generally. _{…you're really gonna hate this/pieces of you swimming in my brain/drenched to the bone/waiting for you in the rain…[4]}_  It was one of the many standout things about her, along with her fearlessness and ever-questing mind.  She would've loved the chance to get out here and explore, to find what lay hidden behind the blinding light of the next star. She would've…

_And why is she not here, Tucker?  Hmmn?  Any thoughts on _that_ while we're at it? Any brilliant flashes of inspiration there, Mr. Damn the Consequences?_

"Will you…" So hard to argue with the one person who knew all his weak points, all his dark little secrets.  His jaw tightened as he tried to force the thoughts out of his head as he tried…_{…I know you've heard it all before/So I don't say it anymore/I just stand by and let you fight your secret war…[5]}_  "Damn it."  He hurled the glass at the opposite wall, but its sturdy construction denied him the satisfying sound of it shattering against the metal.  Instead he watched while half a glass of good bourbon dripped down and onto the floor, marking his transgressions with its distinctive scent.  Even off duty he shouldn't be drinking, not like this, and somehow he didn't think that Archer would be inclined to forgive him for anything right now.  _{"Heart of the Matter."  Don Henley}_ Her voice now, and her famous shorthand while she was at it.  Song title and artist, and somehow he was supposed to figure out what the message was.  _Face it, Tucker_.  This time, his shadow spoke, a hint of laughter in it.  _You are certifiably going insane._

He paced the small room for a couple of seconds, then turned and headed out the door.  He _would_ go crazy in here, trapped in with his own thoughts.  Problem was, he wasn't hungry – he'd throw up if he tried to eat anyway – and there'd be too many people in the mess hall.  The last thing he needed now was any kind of conversation.  Besides he was, well, idgy is what Toby would call it, a cross between irritated and edgy.  He needed to do something, burn off this new energy that somehow had invaded his body.

The gym, then.  It shouldn't be too crowded and with luck a good hard workout would be enough to knock him out (since trying to do that with the booze hadn't worked), and exercise was permissible, right?

_Oh like you're so good at asking permission, right?  Like you asked _permission_ before you taught Charles_ – even his inner voice used the name the cogenitor'd chosen for herself -- _how to read, and basically fucked up what was left of her short life.  Like you asked _permission_ before you promised her she could have sanctuary, setting her up to have her only hope yanked away.  Yeah, Tucker, you're really good with rules and permission, aren't you.  Goddamn fuckin' genius at it._

Doing his best to ignore himself, he selected one of the stationary bikes and cranked up the tension.  It was going to hurt; he wanted it to hurt.  Make the physical pain stronger than the emotional.  Focus on something else.  Anything else.

Across the room a couple of crewmen shared a joke.  "God," one's voice carried across to him, cutting through the layers to register.  "Remember your first time?"

First time.  The first time he ever saw her.  Like he could ever forget that very first meeting…

  


* * *

[1] From "Carry Me Away" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free.

[2]  From "Carry Me Away" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free

[3] Actually, it does.  "Roses Grow" by Concrete Blonde, off the album Free.

[4] From "Rained Out Parade" by Wide Mouth Mason, off the album***

[5] From "Joey" by Concrete Blonde off the album Bloodletting


	2. Spiralling Downward

            (Quick note:  anyone who doubts the following choices of reading materiel (or language) to be age inappropriate obviously never knew me or any of my friends.)

That first meeting.  A new kid at school.  A shy lonely kid sitting alone at lunch break, afraid to be seen.  And then...

            "Hi!"  He jumped as a pair of hands smacked down hard on the table in front of him, then looked up to see who wanted to torment him now.  It was a face he didn't recognise, all freckles and pug nose and…

            "What?  That scary?"  She leaned in and widened her eyes, grin spreading across her face.  "I'm a genetic anomaly.  It's called heterochromia irides, which is rare enough, but then you only usually get normal colours like brown and blue.  How this combo came up I have no idea." The words came fast as though racing each other to be first out of her mouth.  Without asking she pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.

            "Huh?" Well this wasn't going according to script.  Wasn't she going to say something about _him_ being weird, because that was the normal course.  Charles Tucker the Third, grade three freak.

            "Whatcha reading?"  She plucked the pad out of his hand before he could answer or react.  He closed his eyes, certain he was in for it now; his choice of reading material made for an especially tempting target for his classmates.  "Hmn. King.  He's okay, I guess, but I prefer Poe.  Much more psychologically stirring.  _Fall of the House of Usher_?  Scared me half to death.  You know a lot of people say Sir Arthur Conan Doyle invented the deductive detective genre, but Poe wrote his Dupin stories first.  Even Doyle admitted to being inspired by them.  But I don't know anyone else who was better at the 'dark and dreary'.  You know?"

            All he could think to do was nod.  She didn't seem to notice, didn't even pause.

            "Anyway, my name's October Brynn Howard, but if you call me that I'll smack you, don't think I won't.  Call me Toby and everything's fine.  I'm new here, and my mom said the best thing to do was just walk up and introduce myself, and since you're the only person not already in a conversation I thought it wouldn't be as intrusive."  The entire speech came out on one breath, impossible as it seemed.

            "Trip." It was the only thing he could think of, and said it so softly that he wasn't sure whether or not he actually spoke.

            "Is that your name?  Cool.  I suppose I should be grateful, Mom and Dad could've called me something worse, like May or June.  Now Trip is interesting.  Not too many people get tagged with something like that."

            "It's because I'm the third.  Charles Tucker III."  He wondered if there would ever be a day he'd have to stop explaining it.

            "Whoa."  She sat back like she'd been hit.  "That's harsh.  I mean I've always been opposed to that, it's like they expect you to be a copy of themselves, not your own individual.  My mother said that my dad wanted to name me after my grandmother, but that grandma said that it was too much baggage for a child and I should be allowed to start afresh.  Actually _she_ was in favour of waiting until I could choose my own name, which would've been so totally cool, but my parents nixed that and said there had to be _something_ on my birth certificate.  I know it's weird, having a social conscience, but my parents have never tried to stop me from anything.  Grandma says I'm a very old and wise soul, which I think is very cool, too.  Pretty much everything about Grandma is cool, which is why I'm glad I get to live with her."  She seemed to notice the dazed look on his face at last, and leaned back in.  "Are you okay?"

            "It's just, that, um, I've never known a eight-year-old who talks like that.  Mostly it's just about games and comics and stuff."  And sometimes girls, but this was the longest conversation he'd ever had with one.  

            She nodded sagely.  "I know what you mean.  It's probably because I don't know any better because I'm only six."

            If lunch hadn't ended just then, he probably would have choked.  People accused _him_ of being too smart because he spent more time wrapped up in books and drawings.  It was somehow comforting to know that his position as class encyclopaedia (not a hard thing, considering what they expected you to know in grade three) had just been usurped.  He had a feeling he'd somehow just acquired a friend.

            A sudden chill and an odd smell pulled him out of his reverie.  He blinked his eyes and stared down at the bike.  The data display smoked, which even his addled brain recognized as the clear sign of a complete burn out.  He cracked it open, half afraid to look inside.

            More smoke billowed outward from a mass of fused circuits.  There was no way enough power should have surged through the unit to cause that level of damage.  The bike was freestanding; the only power came from a small battery pack that produced very little output.  It was designed not to do this.

            _Nice going, hotshot.  Now you killed the bike_.  He felt himself turning into the damned Typhoid Trip of the Enterprise.  _Calamity Charles.  Can't even be around the machines before they start to self-destruct._

            Shaking, he climbed off the bike, only to find that his legs didn't want to support him.  Only fair that they should join the majority vote.   He staggered over to the wall and pressed the button for the intercom.  "Maintenance."

            There was a pause while communications routed him through.  "Maintenance here.  What's the problem?"

            "You might want to come down to the gym and have a look at one of the bikes.  You're going to have to pull the panel; I hope you can replace it.  And put it on my desk, will you please, I'm going to want to have a look at it."  But not right now, right now he had to get out of here, away from the stares that said more than anybody's words could.  It had gone way past the point of no respect, now they were afraid of him.  It was only time before they turned on him, pushed him back out to the margins.  He almost let loose with a hysterical laugh.  Malcolm was so jealous of him, of his popularity, of the way he seemed to fit in anywhere.  _If you only knew_.  All of it was an act, a shell over top of that same shy, skinny kid who used to fake sick so he wouldn't have to deal with the kids at school.  And not always fake:  sometimes the dread was such that his heart would echo in his ears and the world would spin circles around itself.  He wanted to say something, let them know it wasn't him, that he hadn't done anything, but knew it would only make things worse.

            _Of course you haven't done anything, Commander_. Would be the response, _it's just one of those things_. All the time keeping him calm while they called for Phlox with the tranquillisers.  He headed for the door, wanting to be away even more than he had on the bridge.  They'd really be talking about him now, behind his back and maybe even to the captain.  And how would Archer react to the fact that the crew was afraid of the chief engineer?  Would he take it as another sign that his third officer was a loose cannon who had no business being in Starfleet period, let alone out in deep space and in charge of a very large anti-matter bomb?  Would he re-evaluate their friendship – the closest kinship Trip had had since Toby – and find it wanting, find Trip to be unworthy of the trust and respect he'd been given.  Would he feel betrayed?

            _You think he doesn't already_?  Inner-Charles seemed almost gleeful at that oversight.  _I would be surprised if you don't head home on the first Vulcan ship heading back in that direction_._  You single-handedly screwed up first contact with an extremely technologically advanced species.  You made him look like a fool._  Archer did not suffer fools gladly, if he suffered them at all.

            The doors slid open, revealing Malcolm on the other side.  _Just lovely_, Trip thought.  _Just who I didn't need to see_.  The concern was twofold.  Not only was Malcolm likely to ask how he was – a question Trip didn't feel considering let alone answering honestly – the lieutenant also had reason to worry.  It wasn't that long ago that Malcolm stopped him from making a fatal mistake -- _are you sure it was a mistake?_ – when they were trapped in Shuttlepod One with little hope of rescue.  Despite his tendency to self-absorption, Malcolm was hardly stupid.  Would he put two and two together and realise that it wasn't misguided heroism that inspired Trip to climb into the airlock?  _Had_ he put two and two together?

            "Just who I was looking for."  Malcolm sniffed for a moment then peered past Trip at the bike.  "What happened?"

            "Malfunction."

            "Oh.  Well, I was actually hunting you down to ask if you were going…"

            "No." Trip shook his head, not letting his friend finish.  "I'm not.  I'm…" He sighed, but didn't finish the sentence.  Company was the last thing he needed tonight, even though the movie was one of his favourites.

            Malcolm's brow furrowed.  "Are you sure?  Because I was just…"

            "Look, Malcolm.  Right now I'm really not in the mood."  Talk about stating the obvious.

            "_Masque of the Red Death_." Malcolm clearly wasn't going to give up easily.  "Sounds like something right up your alley."

            "I know what the damn movie is, Malcolm.  Who the fuck do you think picked it out?"  One of Toby's favourites too, though she always swore by the story first.  Poe.  Her premiere choice in the world of fiction.  Why was it all leading back there?  He regretted his choice of words as soon as they were out, but there was no way to take them back.  At the same time, he just didn't want to fight anymore.

            It worked.  Malcolm's face closed down, but not before his eyes flashed with hurt.  He turned and stalked away without saying anything else.

            _Well done.  Anyone else you want to alienate while you're at it_?  He could feel the stares behind him intensifying.  While never exemplary, his language had never carried quite that harshness before either.  A small voice crawled up from the recesses of his mind, a mantra from all the bad old days.  _Why can't everybody just leave me alone?_

            *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    ***** ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****

_Perfect darkness_.  Not the dark of a moonless night with its greys and shadows, but the deep _absolute_ dark that comes when there's no light at all, even the glow of the farthest off star.

_Perfect silence_.  Not the silence of a grave with its gently shifting dirt and the soft skitter of burrowing insects, but the overpowering _absolute_ silence of nothing and nowhere.

            Perfect silence, perfect dark.  Nothing to indicate a passage of time, or that time even existed.  Yet he knew it was there, trickling or racing past he had no idea, but knew it wasn't going to stop, no matter how hard he wished it would.  Each moment robbed him of hope, drew him closer to the worse darkness, the one that came with morning, light, and sound.  Here, he was like Schrödinger's cat:  in a state between alive and dead or maybe a little of both.  But sooner or later this box was going to open and he'd have to decide which it was going to be.  Tempting as it was, he couldn't stay here forever.

            He sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, touching down on an icy cold floor.  _What the hell?_  It shouldn't be cold; there was no ebb and flow of temperature between "night" and "day" like there would be on a planet.  Besides, this was freezing.

            A factoid from biology class drifted back to him.  Cold extremities such as hands and feet were a physiological symptom of extreme stress.  The body redirected blood towards the internal organs to keep them warmest, thinking that it was in life or death mode.  Sighing, he stood up and stepped forward.  And stopped.

            The cold seemed to confine itself to one small section of the floor beside the bed.  Yet such a thing should be impossible.  If anything the areas to the outside of the room, towards the window should be the cooler.  And one isolated little spot?  It defied every law of thermodynamics he'd ever learned.  Cautiously he stepped back into the spot.  It was growing warmer now, balancing out to the rest of the room.  It was almost as though…

            "You're going crazy." He'd always only been a small step away from it in any case.  Now it seemed like that step had been taken, and several more besides.  His hands shook a little as he considered the possibility.  _Could_ he really be that unbalanced?  He'd been hearing voices in his head all day yesterday, and now he was hallucinating.  Maybe he should see Phlox and…

            No.  If he was that far gone, checking with the doctor would only make things worse.  They'd lock him up, drug him up, and they'd take everything away.  He'd rather be dead.

            _There is another way_.  No, not that either.  While it worked, there was no telling for how long.  And anyway, he had promised he'd never walk that road again.  He owed that much.  Steeling himself, he turned towards the closet, steadfastly avoiding the bathroom.  They'd just have to deal with him showerless for the day.

*****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****    *****  ****

            _And you thought yesterday was bad_.  They must have set a record for efficiency in engineering, as everybody rushed around trying to avoid him without avoiding him.  Jobs that had languished for weeks were suddenly being tackled with an intensity he'd never seen before.  _Too bad you had to kill somebody to get it_.

Even Lieutenant Hess – usually as outspoken and blunt as Trip himself – seemed to be tiptoeing her way through her shift.  Everybody went to her today, rather than taking their questions to him as would be normal.  Conversations stopped when he stepped into the room, as people bent their heads over their work.  And now bridge duty.

Malcolm wouldn't even look at him when he left the turbolift and walked to his station.  Hoshi shot a quick glance in his direction and looked away, while Travis did an excellent imitation of the engineering crew.  As for T'Pol, the look in her eyes put lie to the notion that Vulcans were incapable of emotion.  That was nearly the worst, for despite their arguments – or maybe even because of them – hers was the respect Trip craved the most.  Next to Archer's, of course.

For the smallest of blessings, the captain wasn't there.  Trip didn't trust himself to ask where he was, better just to do his job and get out of here.  His headache had returned a while back and was now threatening to disrupt his vision.  Then a wave of nausea crashed into his stomach, bringing with it a concussion's worth of dizziness.  Migraine.

"Excuse me."  He stood up from his post, and didn't even wait for a dismissal.  The symptoms were getting stronger; if this followed the usual course he would barely have time to get down to sickbay before becoming completely incapacitated.  _At least now you've got an excuse_.  He could hand Phlox the migraine story, take the rest of the day off.  Just get away from everybody and everything.  As if.

Phlox gave him a shot, which helped some but really only managed to take the edge off.  He sensed there was more the doctor wanted to ask him, but he made his excuses, promising to go take a nap so the headache wouldn't rebound later.  Better that than admit the truth.  _I just can't do it anymore._  

There was nowhere else to go, nowhere safe.  He leaned against the bathroom sink, studying the mirror and hating what he saw.  A too pretty face stared back, one that hid the bastard underneath.  If he'd been ugly he'd never have been able to cause this much damage.  The good looks made people predisposed to like him, and the apparent intelligence made them think he knew what he was doing.  Still, even if he'd just been smart…

            So, what first?  A little something with the eyes maybe?  The edge of a straight razor tapped the delicate skin just below the right eye.  Slowly he increased pressure, pulling downwards.  He'd barely moved a fraction of an inch when it happened.  A flash of red in the mirror, just over his right shoulder.  He dropped the razor and spun, ready to give hell to the son-of-a-bitch who felt it was okay to invade his personal space.  No one was there:  his quarters were empty.  Hands shaking he turned back to the sink.  The razor had vanished.  He was sure he heard it clatter into the sink when he dropped it, so where did it go?

            "Fuck."  Couldn't he do _anything_?  What the hell was going on here?

            _{Never again…you promised.  Never again}_ Definitely Toby's voice, and not a song anymore.  And he had promised.  He had promised…

            "Trip, what's wrong with you?  Are you okay?"  With typical Toby stubbornness she followed him into the boys' washroom.  The rules applied to other people, she'd argue, and any way sometimes ethics demanded that you break the rules.  Of course that was according to her ethics, which were harder to figure out than those damn train equations.

            "I'm fine."  He wasn't fine; the pain in his head wouldn't go away.  How did he think he could make it onto the football team?  Most of the other grade seven kids were huge, and he was still stuck under five feet.  Then Becky Gershon laughed at him when he'd asked if she wanted to go to the movies that night, and it wasn't long before everybody joined her.  Throw in the fact that Mom and Dad were fighting again (he heard his name come up a _lot_), and he was stuck having to look after his younger siblings,  "Just go away.  You shouldn't even be here."  Couldn't she see that she was part of the problem?  He had enough of a reputation for geekdom, being friends with a girl, especially one who was too smart for her own good and saw no need to conform to society – was that a rat poking its head out of her sleeve – didn't help at all.  Even David and Gary and Michael were pressuring him to get rid of her, and she was the reason they were all friends in the first place.

            "That was then, man.  Can't you see she's dragging us down?"  Only because Toby had so little patience for the average girl's conversation.  She'd rather discuss mechanics, or philosophy, or some other equally weighty matter.  So all the other girls thought she was unforgivably weird, and thus Trip weird by association.

            "Look, Trip, if there's a problem, I…"

            "Just get out and leave me the hell alone, okay?  Just go."

            She backed off and headed around the corner.  He heard the door open then close again.  He felt like shit, like he was a bigger turncoat than Judas.

            _Maybe because you are, Tucker_.  If there ever were a bigger screw-up on the planet, he'd like to meet the guy.  Last year he and Toby won the science fair, this year he was close to flunking out.  Dad had started drinking again: nothing short of straight A's would satisfy him, and the fact that his eldest son, his namesake, seemed headed for a life in prison didn't impress him much.

            _"Stealing cars?  That's what you want to do with your life?  Goddamnit, Trip, what the fuck were you thinking?  You weren't thinking, were you, you were just acting on your goddamn impulse just like you always do.  I should let them lock you up, but your mother won't let me.  Why do you always have to be so goddamn _stupid_?"_ The cops had been more reasonable about it, saying that it was a first offence and they didn't think he had malicious intent.  They tried to tell Dad that it was a peer-pressure thing, but he wasn't having any of it.  After that speech Dad had quit talking to him, hadn't spoken to him since.

            And the worst part was Dad was right, it was stupid.  But the girls hadn't believed he could do it, and he just wanted to show them.  How was he supposed to know it was wired with a silent alarm and a locater beacon?  And it wasn't like he took it anywhere; it was enough proof just to start it up.  Then it locked him in and things got worse from there.

            The next few days were hell, locked away from his friends, and then he stumbled on the solution by accident.  He'd dropped a glass while doing punishment dishes (by hand, the drudgery part of the lesson), and a fragment buried deep into his palm while he was picking it up.  The funny thing was, it hadn't hurt, there was a pleasant numbness instead, and he didn't feel as bad anymore.  Physical and emotional pain.  Processed the same way by his brain, the cut must have put him over the threshold and his body went into an anaesthetic reaction.  The only problem was that as the wound healed, the pain went away, taking the numbness with it.

            He pulled the pocketknife from his jacket and laid it on the counter. He placed his left hand palm up on the counter then readied the knife.

            "Ohmigod, Trip!" Apparently Toby hadn't left, instead waited silently, its own form of miracle.  "What are you doing?"  She rushed to his side and tried to pull the knife out of his hand.

            "Go away!" He shoved her back, causing her to stumble onto the floor.  The rat crawled out of her sleeve and ran down the wall behind the urinals before crouching in the corner, afraid of the spectacle before it.

            "Don't do this.  Please.  For God's sake.  Whatever it is, there's got to be a better way of dealing with it."  She picked herself up and threw her arms around him, her grip too strong for him to break.  "Don't do this.  There's got to be a way."  She was crying, something Toby never did.  And the fact that she had nothing to say…

            He started to cry too, big gasping gulps.  "You don't understand.  You don't.  It's something I gotta…Toby, you can't get it."

            "I can try.  Just please, Trip, promise."

            But he didn't promise, not then.  He couldn't promise her that there, that vow came later, too late to be any good.  _Tucker, you are a shit_.


	3. Hitting Bottom

Sorry about any delays from here on in, but it's exam time, playoff hockey time, and 40 hours of work a week really cuts into any time left to do any writing.

Disclaimer:  I do not own these characters (well, possibly Toby, but I don't really think she could be owned by anyone).  Nor do I own the songs quoted, which is why I attribute them to the appropriate artists. The story (insomuch as there _are_ any original stories left) is mine.  This is for entertainment purposes (mostly mine, but hopefully yours as well) only.

Technical notes:  Thanks to some great criticism, anything that appears inside square brackets [ ] from here on in qualifies as flashback.  Hope this helps everybody keep things straight.

As mentioned on Chapter 1's notes:  if the history does not seem to line up with an official history, there is one big reason – I am not strong on these characters history past what is in the show.  Please then, take it as you will:  an alternate history (a la Harry Turtledove), or simply events that a person doesn't always like to think about, let alone discuss with others.  No one is a single entity.  We are all amalgamations of previous experiences, other people's influences, and our own biochemistry.  Since I've been using music quotes, I'll use another here:  "You were never the same way twice."[1]  None of us are.  Mirrors don't always tell the truth.

And now… on with the story….

            "Well, I wouldn't quite go that far."

            Trip jumped.  There was no one else in the room, but he definitely heard someone.  A sharp laugh formed a reply to the comment, and he realised that both had come from the intercom.  Somehow the doorbell had malfunctioned, broadcasting a conversation from the hallway outside.  It was, like yesterday's incident with the bike, something that should – technically – not happen.

            _I don't need any of this_.  Too tired and frustrated to track down a gremlin, he simply unscrewed the panel and disconnected the wires.  Acting on a non-existent safety feature, the door slid open.

            "Fucking hell."  

            A passing crewmember looked over in shock, then seeing who uttered the comment looked away even more quickly.  No doubt one more little thing to be added to the list of transgressions against him.  _An officer, maybe, but certainly no gentleman_.  Refraining from comments that may infringe on the rights or sensibilities of others – wasn't that in one of the anti-harassment manuals? Taken broadly that could eliminate almost every phrase in the lexicon of human interpersonal communication (hell, even "human" could be taken the wrong way), but he was pretty sure that even taken narrowly, his last statement definitely fell under the category of phrases to be avoided.

              "Like I give a fuck."  Nothing else about him these past couple of days had lived up to the epitome of a Starfleet officer, so why should he start now?  Instead he reached into the narrow opening and grasped the edge of the door with his fingertips.  Planting one foot on the inside of the doorframe he pulled, letting his frustration fuel his efforts with adrenaline.  The door resisted for a moment then flew closed, nearly catching his hand in the process.  "Son of a bitch!"

              Well, the door was shut now.  He stood for a moment, shaking, then walked over to the desk and sat down.   As he did, the lights dimmed and the room grew colder.  Great.  Maybe he should take this as a sign.  Engineer can't handle the machines, time to hang it up and go home.

              "Are you trying to tell me I wasted my time?"

              He spun around in the chair, unable to believe what he heard, and now saw.  It couldn't be, not here, millions of miles from Earth and ages away from…

              "That's right."  She grinned, the grin that said she was pissed off, but also had a joke hiding somewhere up her sleeve.  She could pack more information into a single grin than most people could in a ten page essay.  "It's me.  Your first victim."

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              "Toby?" She looked like she did when he last saw her, well not quite when he _last_ saw her, but close enough.  "It… I… You…"

              "Try to string a phrase together, Trip, it's not all that difficult.  All it takes is a subject, verb, and object, with maybe some adjectives thrown in there.  A good one would be 'Hello, Toby, long time, no see, I thought you were dead.'"

              He nodded, his mouth dry.  He didn't believe in ghosts, and here was a story that would make Travis fall down in worship.  It had to be the strain.  The events of the past few days and the fact that he hadn't been eating; this had to be a stress induced hypoglycaemic hallucination.  There was no other reasonable, logical explanation.

              Toby (or Toby's image) placed a hand on her chest and stepped backwards, feigning shock.  "What is this?  Charles 'Trip' Tucker the Third, thinking like a Vulcan?  Looking for a _logical_ explanation?  Well, to paraphrase Dickens I am not a bit of undigested beef or a piece of potato, or any lack thereof.  I am exactly what I appear to be, you just happen to have gotten yourself into a state where your mind no longer wants to work hard enough to exclude reality."

              "I didn't say anything," he countered, his natural combativeness overtaking some of his shock, "So you've _got_ to be in my head."

              "You didn't have to." Debate was one of Toby's favourite pastimes too; maybe that was why he was so interested in people who would argue with him.  "Despite the opinions of your poker buddies, you are an astonishingly easy read.  You would rather be crazy than admit that you might be talking to a real, dead, ghost." She leaned in closer, her mis-matched eyes boring into his.  "Insanity's not going to make me go away, Trip.  I'm here for the duration, like it or not.  You, and me, buddy until we get this whole thing sorted out.  Got it?"

              He whimpered, pulling back in his chair, his fingers digging deep into the armrest.  Fear washed away disbelief, and was followed by the certainty that whatever was to come, no matter how bad it got, was somehow less than he deserved.  Even if his former best friend had a new role as avenging angel, he'd certainly done enough to merit it, and more besides.

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              ["My God, Trip, you are so _drunk_.  I don't fucking believe it."  Toby tugged at his arm, trying to pull him away from the crush of partiers.  "Your Dad is going to _kill_ you."

              He shook her off and grinned, well past the point of worrying about minor things like the future.  "No way.  We _won_, Toby, we _won_!" And won they had, the state football championships were theirs to savour, all thanks to the efforts of the school's star quarterback, one Charles Tucker III.  He had a _right_ to celebrate tonight, even his Dad would agree with that.  Anyway, since he'd gotten his life back on an academic track, their relationship had improved immensely.  He threw an arm around Toby's shoulders and hugged her tight to him.  "We are the _greatest_."

              "You are the drunkest.  You can't even stand up straight."  She pulled out of his grip, shoving him hard for good measure.  She chewed her lip, tears in her eyes.  In this light, surrounded by this group she looked even younger than she was, a little kid invading a world of grown-ups.  This past year had been hard on them, on their friendship, as the two years between them assumed the proportions of a huge gap it had never been before.  He was seventeen, in the prime of his life; she wasn't even old enough to hold a job.  Her role of friend was shifting to one closer to the one Elizabeth held: beloved younger sister.  Until now, he didn't realized how much that hurt her.  But that was how he felt.  It didn't mean he didn't care about her, it just meant that he… well, he had other friends, other interests.  Girlfriends.

              "Toby…"

              "Forget it." She spun, walked, and then ran away from him.  He watched her go, torn between chasing her down and…

              "What's up?"  Suzie Benton, one of the cheerleaders, came up behind him and looped her arm through his.  "Come on, we're missing you back here."  He let himself be led back into the throng, and buried himself in the celebration.  Yet in the back of his mind a little voice nagged.  _You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for her_.

              Three days later, and she still wouldn't answer her phone; her grandmother would only tell him that she wasn't there.  He went by her house, but she wouldn't come to the door; even at night no light shone in her room.  Toby was gone.  As quick as she'd come into his life she vanished, and with less explanation.

              "Tell me if you hear from her."  Trip stood on the porch of Toby's grandmother's house, unable to meet Mrs. Howard's eyes.  "Tell her I'm sorry, that I was stupid and I shouldn't have acted like that."  He half hoped that Toby herself was hiding inside, was listening to everything to everything he said.  How could have he just let her go like that?  Toby was the reason he wasn't in jail or dead.  She had been his confidante, his counsellor, and his booster.  Yet she'd chased him down with a problem of her own, and he hadn't been there for her, wouldn't help.  Worse than that, but the problem wasn't born on the night of the party: he realized that it had been building for a while, but he had been too pre-occupied with his own life to notice.

              "Excuse me." The soft, polite voice caused both of them to jump.  When Trip turned and saw the uniform, saw the car that stated rather clearly that this car was from the Bay County police department, his heart stopped beating and the band he thought he'd lost tightened in on his head.  The sun stopped putting forth heat, he shivered in the 34 ºC temperature.

              _Oh, God, no.  No, no, no, no, no._  Yet he knew that the answer was more than likely yes.  No other reason for a cop to show up, so polite and sombre.

              "Mrs. Anita Howard?"  The officer glanced at Trip, unsure who he was, only seeing a teenager in a state of panic.

              "Yes?" She stepped forward, her face set tight and broadcasting that she knew as much as Trip did, that they didn't need this woman to tell them anything.

              "Mrs. Howard, I regret to inform you…"

              Trip felt the sun black out, saw the world disappear from his eyes and felt it tip like a surfboard catching a bad angle on a wave.  He didn't hear the words that were being said, heard nothing but the screaming in his mind.  Finally, mercifully it stopped.

              He didn't go to the funeral; they wouldn't let him out of the hospital even for that.  Any kind of stress related loss of consciousness had to be taken seriously, the doctors told him, even with modern medical techniques the human psyche was a potent, barely understood thing.  The skull fracture and brain injury he received when his head hit the railing hadn't helped any either.  

              Toby wouldn't have wanted one anyway; she shared her grandmother's belief that death didn't end everything, that it was just another event in life.  Still, he found himself needing something, some way to connect that she really was gone, not coming back.  Somehow he found himself in their tree house, the one they'd built themselves.  It had been their place, for no one else.

              "I'm sorry, Toby.  Can you ever…" No, he couldn't ask that.  He didn't deserve that.  "I promise you, I'll never do anything like that again."  His voice shook and the tears were hot on his cheeks. "I'll take care of myself, too, just like you always told me to.  I'm going to be an engineer, like Dad keeps saying I should.  I know that's what you were always going to do with yourself, that you thought I'd be a better architect or artist, but I'm going to do this, because you can't do it anymore." He smiled, remembering how she had always been the one to solve the practical problems, to figure out how to get things done.  The smile disappeared just as quickly.  How come, if Darwin was so right, stupid people were the ones who got to survive?  "I'm going to keep going, because I know that's what you would want."  He held his hand out palm up, his half of the ritual they used to bind a promise.  Hers should be wrapping around his wrist, gripping tight to seal the vow.  He didn't tell her the other part, couldn't say what she'd hate to hear.  _You're the last person I'll ever care about, outside my family.  I'm never going to hurt anybody like that again_.  The only way to avoid that risk would be to not get involved, not on that level.  _Fall_ in love, sure.  But never, _ever_ was he going to have a best friend again.  _Ever_.]

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              "Well, remind me never to piss you off." Toby shook her head, watching as Trip relived the past.  "The amount of practice you get beating yourself up, I'd hate to see what you'd do to anyone else."  She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her fingers on her elbow like his mother used to when he'd hand her an excuse that she didn't believe.  "And they actually let you into Starfleet?"

              "They didn't exactly know what they were getting."  Easy enough to fool the psych tests when you spend enough time studying them.

              "So you're not a highly qualified warp-field engineer.  What are you, then?  An ice-cream vendor?  A dog collar hole puncher?"

              He gave her the look that Elizabeth always told him could break mirrors.  "I was speaking of my qualifications as a human being, not my technical skills.  I would think that you of all people would understand that."

              She looked him up and down, like a scientist with a new specimen.  "Let's see.  Bi-pedal, no noticeable points on the ears, given the complexion I'd definitely have to say iron based blood.  Four fingers and an opposable thumb on each hand, hands arrayed as opposites.  Appears to be a carbon based life-form.  Oxygen breathing.  What are the missing qualifications again?"

              "I'm talking on a basic, social level.  Not _homo sapiens_ as a species, but a member of society.  Morals.  Ethics."  He spoke slowly, anger rising at her inanity.  It sank again as he realised that it mirrored his own treatment of her, all those years ago.  _Your problems, so big, are just trivial_.

              "Oh.  Ethics.  Now we're on firmer ground here.  Ethics have always been a specialty of mine, as you should very well know.  I tried to instil a few in you, but it is becoming rather clear that I did an insufficient job."  He winced as she spoke, but didn't interrupt, "So let us attempt to trace this back to the main problem, the one to which all others are merely symptoms.  Are you, Charles Tucker the Third, also known as Trip, rank of Commander, Starfleet, chief engineer of the warp five starship _Enterprise_, are you a bad person?"

              "Yes."  He stared past her, at a point on the floor under the window.  He couldn't look at her, couldn't face her.

              "Whoa.  You know that is the first time, in all the times I've asked that question, which admittedly isn't a lot, but is more than this once, that anyone has ever answered in the affirmative."  Her voice lifted up, the light clear tones he remembered so well.  " '…tell me how much do you think you can take, until the heart in you's starting to break, sometimes it feels like it will'[2]  Oh, Trip, Trip, Trip.  You just don't have middle gears, do you?  It's either flat out, or in reverse.  Good, or bad, right or wrong and nothing in between."

              "Anything else is just excuses."  He tensed as he sensed her coming up beside him.

              "So, there's no balance in your life?  No good you've done?  You're unredeemable?"

              He turned his head, "Don't get Platonic on me.  And I'm not James Stewart."

              "  Actually it's Socratic.  And this is not _It's a Wonderful Life_.  I can't show you what history would be like if you weren't in it, because you are, and that's how it worked out.  There might be some universe out there with no Trip Tucker, but this isn't it."  She moved around, back into his line of sight.  "I guess I just want to know what it is that makes you such a bad person."

              He told her.  About what happened to her, about the Cogenitor.  "If I hadn't been so damned arrogant, if I didn't think I was so smart, if I'd even stopped to think about the consequences, she'd still be alive.  Their baby would be born, everything would be better.  Not only that, but Archer wouldn't hate me either."

              "So that's it." She said it so softly he could barely hear.  She paused for a moment, the two of them sharing silence.  "Remember when you stole the NX prototype?"

              He looked at her.  "How come you know about that, and not about the other stuff?" He spoke bitterly, even more betrayed.  She was playing him.

              "Archer was talking about it to his dog, yesterday.  I think he was blowing off steam."  There was no indication in her tone of a lie, and he had to admit that Archer talking to Porthos wasn't out of character.  Why _that_ incident had come up he couldn't guess, but part of him wanted to know where this was leading.

              "You did more than steal a ship that day.  He was having serious doubts about the engine himself, about its viability.  He loved his dad more than anything, and was having to face that his hero's work may have been vitally flawed.  By insisting that it wasn't, by finding a way to _prove_ that it wasn't, you gave him something more precious than anything in the world.  That's what I'm here for."

              "What?"  He couldn't imagine what he'd done for the captain that was so important that it merited having a dead person show up to return the favour, but it couldn't be all that good.  Especially not if he'd done it first.

              "To give you back your faith."

  


* * *

[1] From Try, by Blue Rodeo.  Available on their Greatest Hits CD.

[2] From I Go To Extremes by Billy Joel, available on Greatest Hits Vol III


	4. The Heart of the Matter

          "My _what_?"  He looked up, bleary eyed at this apparition that was  -- like in life – not what she seemed.  His faith?  What faith had he ever had?  Sundays were for football, not church in his book and Toby should know that. 

          "Your faith." She said it simply, as though it was the easiest thing in the world to understand.  "I mean, look at you.  Locked away in a cell like some medieval monk, flagellating himself for imagined sins.  According to you, you've done wrong, so there's no need anymore for hope.  You don't understand; we choose our lives for a reason, Trip."

          He laughed, bitterly.  "I think if I had the choice I would've gone for something other than this one.  Something a little, I don't know, nicer?"

          "It's not all that bad." She muttered.  Louder she said, "Remember when you didn't make the football team in grade 7?  Remember how you spent that summer in training, so that you'd have a better shot the next time?  How much it hurt sometimes, but you kept going, because you had a goal and you knew it would make you better.  It's the same thing, Trip."

          There was a pause as she thought, then, "Are you familiar with the concept of catharsis?"

          "That's the Greek thing, they did with their plays, right?"  Even though he was a voracious reader, he regarded most high literature as too important for its own good.  Maybe due to the way it was taught at school, but most of it bored him to tears.  He'd rather a horror or adventure story, or in a pinch a good operations manual.

          "Creating a story that inspired pity, yet understanding in the audience.  Aristotle and others felt that the nature of catharsis was to cleanse the soul, and purify the emotions.  Feeling bad to feel good, if you want to look at it rather simplistically.  When Catholicism came along, they took the idea and expanded upon it, in the Rite of Reconciliation.  You've heard the expression 'Confession is good for the soul?'"

          He nodded.

          "Well, they were working off the same principle.  The rite has three different stages: Contrition, Confession, and Absolution.  All three steps _must _accomplished in order, and according to Catholic doctrine, only a priest can provide you with the last, serving as an intermediary between the penitent and God.  But they were wrong.  You can't get any kind of absolution if you won't give it to yourself."

             She knelt on the floor beside him, leaning her head into his side.  He felt the same chill he had yesterday on the bike, as though she was pulling the heat out of him through her very touch.  It was somehow comforting though, having her there.  "Come on." She tugged his arm until he got out of the chair and sat down beside her, under the desk.  Two children hiding against a storm, keeping each other safe.

          "Do you remember this?" She reached up and ran her fingers across his forehead, over where the scar would be from the injury in the picture.  "Remember how it happened?"

[        "Tri-ip." Elizabeth pulled on his sleeve, trying to get his attention.  "Trip.  My kite's stuck." 

          Stuck well, too, high up in a tree.  "I want my kite back, Trip.  Please."

          He nodded, and reached over to ruffle her hair.  "Sure, brat.  Hang on."  He looked across the sun-covered park to where his mother chatted with a couple of friends.  Too busy to notice so… "Here goes nothing."  He took a running start and jumped, barely able to grab onto the lowest limb.  The rough bark cut into his hands a bit, but not enough to matter.  Swinging back and forth, he got together enough momentum to toss one leg over the bough and pull himself up.  Now it was simply a matter of picking his way through the close-knit branches and up to where the kite was.

          _Easier said than done_.  Light-weight as he was, some of those branches were little more that twigs, and Elizabeth – true to form for five year olds with kites – had managed to get it stuck right at the very top.  Even from here he could see how the string tangled around a bit, meaning it would be more than a simple pull to get it out.  As he eased closer, he saw that although it was wedged in well, the tough fabric of the kite itself was undamaged; it should fly again as soon as he got it down.  Slowly, carefully, he began to extricate the toy.  _Now would not be a good time to remember I'm afraid of heights._  As the thought crossed his mind, he glanced down, to late to recall that he shouldn't.

          _Crack_.  As his balance shifted, the branch underneath him gave way.  Physics took charge, accelerating him towards the ground much faster than he'd gone up.  He clawed desperately at the tree, which clawed back, raking across his forehead and sending blood dripping into his eyes.

          He hit the ground loudly and hard, as Elizabeth began screaming.  Dazed he looked down to his hands, which still held the kite, now broken beyond repair.  "I'm sorry, Elizabeth.  I'll get you a new one.  A better one, how's that?"  He didn't clue that she wasn't screaming about the kite; her screams were directed towards her broken brother.

          "My God, Trip, what happened."  Mom rushed to his side, covering the cut with a piece of his ripped shirt, then began feeling for broken bones, missing limbs or anything else that could be wrong with an unsupervised boy.  Satisfied that he was in no imminent danger of death – blood and bruises were something she was used to in him by now, the by-product of a curious mind – she hauled him to his feet and started brushing him off.

          "I got Elizabeth's kite back."  He displayed it sheepishly, like a pagan penitent with an inadequate offering to his priest.  "It broke though, but I said I'd get her a new one."

          "Where was it?"  His mother took the kite from him and folded it up before placing it in a nearby trashcan.  He could tell she had an idea, but wanted to hear it from him.

          "Up the tree.  But I got it back for her, Mom.  And I didn't mean to break it."  Why did Mom seem so irritated with him?  He'd only been trying to help.  And he beat his fear of heights.  It had been way up there, but he'd gone and got it, and hadn't been scared.  At least not too scared to get it.

          "You went up a tree to get a _kite_?"  His mother knew about his acrophobia as much as he did.  She came back to him and looked intently into his eyes, then reached out a hand to his siblings.  "Come on, you two, we're going back to the car."

          "But Mom," Trip felt he had to protest.  Just because he'd done something didn't mean that the others should be punished for it.  This day out was supposed to be a treat for all of them.  Brother and sister echoed his sentiment.

          "No buts.  Get in the car, you two.  Now."  It was her 'I'm not kidding' tone, the one that came right before the 'You've pushed it too far now, Mister," tone.  That one they didn't want to hear.  "We're taking your brother to the hospital."

          "Why?"  Hospital?  Was he hurt?

          His mother looked at him, a wry smile twitching on her lips.  "Because I want to see if you picked up that head injury after or before you fell out of the tree."   ]

          "I loved your Mom," Toby told him, "She could see the humour in anything.  Remember you told me you put that snake in Elizabeth's dollhouse and she started screaming?  Then your mom came and took it away, and later that night you found it in your bed?"

          He nodded, smiling a little at the memory.  He climbed halfway up the wall on that one, and his mother had stood there in the doorway with her arms crossed and a "Gotcha" smile on her face.  Some of his best practical jokes were courtesy of his mother who never tired of finding creative ways to keep her rambunctious family in line.  "Yeah, Mom was pretty cool."

          "Your Dad wasn't all bad either."  She met his dubious look straight on, daring him to contradict her.  "Sure you guys had your troubles, but that was my mistake if you think about it."

          "Your mistake?"  He shook his head, trying to work this one out.  "How could it be your mistake?"

          She shrugged.  "They did name you right, really.  Most of the problems you and your dad had with each other are because you were too much alike."  She ignored his raised eyebrows and kept going.  "I mean you were both stubborn as hell, prone to extremes of emotion, and you loved each other very, very much.  All the biggest times he lost it with you was because he was so scared for you.  That's another thing between the both of you, neither one of you could discuss what you were really feeling.  Especially if you were feeling sad, or scared, or even just unsure of yourself."  She reached over and squeezed his hand.  "I bet you don't remember him teaching you how to throw a football."

          "We worked on it every day for three months.  He spent so much time coming up with new drills, so I wouldn't get bored, and he helped me with the physics of it too, telling me why the ball flew like it did, and how I could change it.  And I remember when I was having all that trouble in math," Surprisingly he did remember, his father patiently going over each step, showing a very confused Trip how everything fit together, how everything worked.  The same thing with his first car.  They spent hours poring over it, fine-tuning the fuel systems, the transmission, the suspension, everything.  All the time, Dad telling him stories, good stories, stories that made him laugh so hard he had to sit down and regain his strength.  Good times, good times he'd forgotten for a while.  "He had his moments, I'll admit."

          "Tom Cochrane and Red Rider.  Victory Day."  She laughed at the puzzled look he gave her, and elaborated.  "I can't believe you've forgotten that.  'Life isn't big, no, it's kind of small/Made of small moments they're all strung together/And if you don't look out you might miss them all/Then it's just passed you on by like the weather…' You're confusing moments with all of Life, Trip."

          "I'm not saying there weren't good times, I'm not saying that they didn't make up the bulk of things.  But I _am_ the centre of it when things go wrong.  Not just wrong, but spectacularly wrong." He quoted a phrase from his days at E-school.  "'If it malfunctions, there's a problem.  If it blows up, it was Tucker.'"

          She laughed, light high laughter that went on and on until she flickered around the edges.  Only then did she force herself to stop and look into his pained face.  "That's great.  I mean look at some of the greatest discoveries in science:  penicillin, vaccinations, gravity… the fact that noble gases will react… they're all the result of accidents, or of people saying 'I wonder what would happen if…' Nine times out of ten it blows up, but that tenth time…you're looking at the secrets of the universe, and understanding it all.  You have that Power, Trip.  The best souls never fit in line with everything else."

          "Why are you doing this?"  By any reasonable standards she shouldn't be.  Not that Toby was ever reasonable; what she said about falling in line fit more with her than with him.  Most of his life was a struggle _to_ belong; she'd never given a damn either way. "You could've been out here yourself, if it wasn't for me.  This is the life you were made for, Toby, it should have been yours."

          "Me?" she squeaked.  "Trip, you're talking about Starfleet here.  Sharing rooms.  Military discipline.  I was lucky if I could ever find a clean pair of socks in the morning."

          Funny how details could slip your mind, even ones as big as that one.  Toby's room always looked as though a hurricane would neaten it; quite often she could be found wearing borrowed clothes, simply because she'd never gotten around to washing any of her own.  It would've been a huge hindrance in Starfleet life, he had to admit that.  As for discipline… well Toby was the only person he'd ever heard of who had to sneak _into_ school, refusing to stay home while suspended.

          "Still, I don't see how any of that changes things.  The little things don't make up for the big mistakes." Especially when there were more big mistakes than little things.  "Go ask anyone out there," he waved an arm to indicate the rest of the ship.  "Go ask Captain Archer.  There is no excuse for what I did.  He gave me a responsibility, and I made a conscious decision and betrayed that.  I nearly cost us this entire mission.  Do you have any idea how much this means to him?"

          "You know, I don't think he'd be _on_ this mission if it weren't for you." She threw the words angrily back at him.  "From what he was telling that dog, from the way he was saying things, I got the idea he was such a tight-ass that he'd never have gotten the assignment due to the simple fact that he'd alienate anyone who had to work for him.  He says you're too impulsive, but he could use a little of it himself.  And who says he's right, anyway."

          "Excuse me?"

          "You're the one who brought up ethics."  She crawled out from under the desk, despite the fact that she probably could have just stood straight up through it.  Standing up, she turned to face him, anger radiating from her face, from her posture.  "How the fuck does he defend slavery then?  Cultural diversity?"

          Trip nodded.  "We can't judge them just because they have a different culture.  We may not agree with it but…"

          "So it was entirely okay, _ethical_, by those standards, back when people like your friend Travis would be kept chained up, uneducated and sold off just because of the colour of their skin?  Because it was cultural, legal even.  By those standards, you're saying it was _ethical_ to make little kids work for pennies because it was legal, and that's what the culture demanded.  If you believe that, you're not the Trip I took you for, because the Trip I took you for gave a damn."

          "But they're not human.  It's not our issue."

          "Bullshit."  The lights grew dimmer and she grew brighter.  "Some things are absolutely wrong, no matter what species you are.  From what you said, she was an intelligent, self-aware being, and they were treating her like a piece of property."

          "But _I_ put the ideas in her head.  I said that she could do anything, that she'd be safe."  If he hadn't taught her to read, would have she realised what her situation entailed?  He doubted it.  It was the possibility, and the taking away of that hope that did the damage.  If he'd walked away like T'Pol said, not gotten involved…

          " 'You've got to stand for something, or you'll fall for anything.'[1]  Trip, you gave her the only moments of real happiness she probably ever had in her life.  Have you any idea what kind of a gift that is?  You think she didn't know she was miserable before?  The real problem is that _Captain Archer_," she added an extra shot of acrimony to the last two words, "was having too much fun with his new-found friends to take a stand.  And if that's what humanity is turning into, then I'm _glad_ I'm dead.  Because if we've reached the point where we aren't willing to help the truly oppressed because of whom we might piss off, then we don't deserve the rank of developed species.  The greatest of human abilities isn't the Warp Five engine or the transporter, or the protein re-sequencer; it's _compassion_.  The ability not only to sympathise with someone's situation, but the willingness to do something to improve it.  The Vulcans may claim that logical thought is the way to go, but if you tried that in humans all you'd get is a race of outright psychopaths.  You remember my list of heroes?"

          "Jesus, Ghandi, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and Mother Theresa.  With Pope John Paul II, President James Carter, and Trevor Linden on the reserve list."  He'd always wondered about the last one.  He'd run a search of every data bank he could find and the only Trevor Linden of note he discovered was an early 21st century hockey player.  Hardly in the same league, forgiving the pun.

          "Do you know what they all had in common?  They all did things to improve life for others around them, _even though they didn't have to_.  My first stringers were all fighting society when they did it too.  They saw something that was wrong and said 'I don't care _what_ your culture says, I say differently.'  Without them, I doubt humanity would have survived."

          "Trevor Linden?"  He couldn't help himself, he had to ask.

          "The hockey player?  You know how kids look up to sports heroes."

          He nodded.  It didn't sound like Toby, but everyone could be forgiven a quirk.

          "Well so did he, so he spent a lot of time with sick kids that were in the hospital.  A lot of them were dying and a chance to meet somebody like that was one of the nicest things ever to happen to them.  And he didn't just do it once or twice, either.  He would go in to see them lots of times.  He didn't do it for publicity, either, he did it because he knew it would make them feel better." She softened a little, "so that's why I've got him there.  He wasn't the only one, but… I don't know.  Just for some reason I liked what I read about the guy.

          "My point is, that everybody on that list, on both of those lists was a compassionate caring person.  They didn't ignore pain or injustice, even if it would have been easier, or more politically expedient.  They didn't just say _it's not my problem_.  Instead they said it _is_ my problem, because we're all part of this universe together." She began pacing the room, hypnotizing him.  "And you know, even if Archer wants to argue that point, he's still a fucking hypocrite.  He wants to talk cultural diversity?  Tell him to check in closer to home."

          "Excuse me?" He hadn't expected this twist.  He half wanted to jump in to defend Archer, but survival instinct said otherwise.  This was Toby to the core:  aggressively protecting her loved ones from anyone who would hurt them.

          "Like he showed any respect for _your_ cultural background.  You're Southern, Trip.  We don't forgive easy, especially our own mistakes.  We were brought up on anti-slavery the same way he was brought up on cookies and milk.  If he thinks you're supposed to ignore that just because you're part of the bigger culture called 'human', then he's the one in the wrong job, because starship captain is no place for someone that dense or that naïve.  And if he can't think for himself without consulting the Vulcan playbook for his actions, then he shouldn't be out here as our chief representative either." She lowered her voice, slowed down.  "I'm sorry if I'm destroying your illusions of him as the second coming, but as long as you keep comparing yourself to this ideal you have of him, you'll never measure up.  And believe me, you're better than that."

          He sighed.  "Even working by that, I _still_ didn't do things right, Toby.  I told her I'd protect her, but when push came to shove, I buckled.  Same thing with you."

          "Me?" She stopped dead, one foot still in the air.  "What have I got to do with anything?"

          "If I'd been there for you, when you needed me, nothing would have happened to you.  I was so wrapped up in myself that I didn't…that I never saw how much _you_ needed _me_.  I took so much of you for granted, all you ever did for me I took for granted.  Then when it came time for me to pay back…"

          "Oh, Trip, Trip, Trip. You crazy pig-headed fool.  Is that what you've been thinking?"  She scooted back under the desk with him, put her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder.  "You aren't responsible for stuff like that.  You can't be blamed for not knowing the future.  Both of us, me and Charles, we both made our own decisions.  I didn't have to try to hitchhike my way home that night – especially while wearing black -- and don't think I didn't know how dangerous it could be.   And if she was as smart as you say, well I'm sure she knew exactly what she was doing.  You can't blame yourself because someone does something that ends in his or her tragedy.  Otherwise you're just trying to play God."   Her hand brushed over his cheek, but was unable to remove the tears.  "You…you are the most amazing person I ever could have met, you know that?  You are the only person who took me as I was, instead of trying to pigeonhole me as the baby genius or too incredibly strange for words.  And _that's_ one of the rarest things in the world.  I'll bet you're like that even now:  friends with the people least likely to have them."

          He thought for a moment about Malcolm, how he'd never fit in even with his own family.  "They've always come to me.  Like you did.  Left on my own I don't think I'd have _any_ friends."

          She shook her head.  "Not true.  People come to you because they know – deep down – that you won't turn them away just because they're different.  That you're probably the best person they'll ever know.  Even if you don't let them close enough to see inside."

          "You did."

          "I know.  But you've never done it again since, have you.  You're afraid that if people know about your darkness that they won't like you any more, aren't you?  You care so much about other people, that won't let them care about you, because you think that it would be more trouble for them than it's worth."

          "Yeah." He tried to make a joke of it.  "But like you said, I'm Southern.  We are nothing if not polite."

          "Goddamn fucking shit you're polite."  They both cracked up at that one, too true a description of the way he tended to speak.  Maybe this catharsis could work after all.  "The point is, Trip, that you've got friends.  And they _do _care about you.  You're just going to have to learn to live with that. Your friend outside the gym?  I bet he knows all about your dark side, but it hasn't gotten rid of him, has it?"

          [Malcolm pointing a phase pistol at him, threatening to shoot.  Telling Trip that he – Malcolm – would rather die beside him than let Trip die alone. ]

          "He knows enough, I guess.  But I don't think…"

          "It makes you human, Trip.  Just because you can go down farther and faster than most isn't a bad thing.  It's just because you're so passionate.  You feel with your heart, and soul, and every nerve in your body.  DaVinci, Michelangelo, Einstein, Zephram Cochran, they were all like that.  They changed the world, and most people would say it was for the better.  You could do great things, my friend, but only if you let yourself do them.  And you're not going to do that as long as you think that you're not worth the time.  All that love you've got for other people?  Spare a little for the guy you say keeps screwing things up.  Be patient with him, be kind."  She gestured to a box under his bed, the one holding his drawing supplies, the Go board and tiles, all his bad poetry.  " ´Cause all he gets is that one little box out of all the rest of your life.  Do you remember what Dupin said made the minister an especially dangerous foe?"

          "The fact that he was a poet _and_ a mathematician.  According to Dupin that meant that the minister was not only logical, but capable of creative leaps as well."  He'd loved the Dupin stories, though he'd never said so, because the puzzles were so complex, the solutions so obvious.

          "He could see the world from a different angle, catch the details that everyone else missed.  You've got that too, Trip.  I'll bet it's no coincidence that they couldn't get the NX project to work before you came on board.  I'll bet that it's as much your engine as anyone else's."

          Now that was going too far.  True, he'd worked out a few of the minor glitches, tweaked a couple of things, but other than that…

          "…all for the want of a horseshoe nail.  Don't underestimate the little things, Trip.  Too many people do, they think a big problem has to have a big solution.  It's a major breakdown, or a total crash; they never want to believe that it can be as simple as pushing the on button."

          His lips twitched into a smile at the shared joke.  She'd gone around the bend once, trying to figure out why an experiment wouldn't work, checking connections and wires, testing the batteries, adjusting every little piece.  Finally, he'd reached past her shoulder and flipped a switch.  The device sprang to life, working perfectly.  The look she'd given him was priceless; it still amused him just to think about it.

          He felt the tension, the pain, leaving him, taking with it the last of his energy.  His eyes no longer wanted to stay open, but he didn't want to sleep, didn't want to lose this.  If he started feeling better, would Toby be gone?  He'd forgotten how good it felt to have a real best friend, one who knew you better than you knew yourself.  Someone to whom you could confess anything, and who wouldn't think the worse of you for it.  Who'd back you even if they thought you were wrong, simply because you were their _friend_, which meant far more than any other truth. Someone who could look at all that bad in you and say, "So what if he's a serial murderer, he always rescues lost kittens." and think that the small kindness made up for anything else.  "I love you, Toby."  The words he'd never been able to say, always been afraid she'd take them the wrong way and think he meant as a girlfriend, or a sister.  But he loved her as a friend; in a way he could never love a lover or his family.

          "I know you do, Trip.  I love you, too.  And I'll always be here, I promise."  She tapped his chest just over his heart.  "Kindred spirits never leave, no matter what happens to the rest of us.  But it's lonely here, sometimes; you might want to let someone else in again one day.  Maybe not right now, but one day."  She leaned over and kissed his temple as his eyes closed into sleep.

          He woke to an empty room, his muscles cramping from his unusual posture.  Someone had tucked his pillow under his head, cushioning it from the side of the desk.  Toby?  The doorbell still hung out of the wall, so it was unlikely anybody else had managed to get in.  The lights were back up to full power, and the chill from last night was gone.  Had last night really happened?  Or had he been dreaming, sleepwalked under the desk?

          His stomach grumbled, telling him that it was definitely hungry now, and would he please feed it.  His mouth felt sticky, badly in need of a toothbrush, and he could certainly use a shower.

          An hour later, he walked out – showered, shaved and brushed – heading for the mess hall.  A peaceful calm fell over him, and he hummed to himself, the words he'd found on his console running over in his head.

          Life is waiting for you/It's all messed up but we're alive/Oh, life is waiting for you/ it's all messed up but we'll, oh we'll survive.[2]

  


* * *

[1] From You've Got To Stand For Somethin' by John Cougar Mellencamp off the album Scarecrow

[2] from "Life" by Our Lady Peace, available on the _Men With Brooms_ soundtrack.


End file.
